Second Chances
by lululamperouge
Summary: Chris x Jill
1. 1

**Second Chances - 1**  
(a Resident Evil fan fic)

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If there was one thing Chris Redfield hated more than a viral outbreak – which included but was not limited to the travel time and expenses, the physical and emotional strain of pounding adrenaline, exhaustion, insomnia, hunger, fear, stress, pain (cramps, cuts, burns, asphyxiation, frost bite, headaches, etc. etc.) and all the infectees (human and otherwise) – it was the prevention and treatment tactics to combat such infections. A.K.A. needles.

"Ow!" Chris pulled his arm away with such force that the momentum sent his other shoulder directly into an aluminum tray covered in syringes, Petri dishes, scissors and test tubes. The tray clanged as it fell over, the contents spilling and shattering on the floor, and turned the heads of several staff and patients in nearby beds.

The nurse – Lisa, her nametag said – tapped her foot impatiently against the white, specked, vinyl floor. She expelled a deep breath, closing her eyes as she did so. "I didn't even touch you that time, Mr. Redfield."

Chris scrutinized his shoulder, scratching gently at the unbroken skin in search of a pinprick or spot of welling, wet blood. "Are you sure?"

Lisa rounded the bed and knelt to pick the pieces of glass and plastic off the floor. She gathered everything onto the tray and rolled it across the room. "I'd bet my life on it. Now, let's try this one more time. And try not to flinch or I'll have the orderlies tie you to the bed."

Chris chuckled. Lisa's face was pinched coolly. He coughed once and leaned towards her again. He turned his face as she prepared the syringe, flicking her nail softly against the tip to release air bubbles. He smothered a grunt as the needle punctured his skin and slid deep into the muscle, releasing millions of dead Uroboros agents into his blood stream. The needle came out with a pop and Lisa quickly patched the microscopic hole with a pinch of cotton and a _Spider-Man _Band-Aid.

She smiled with sarcastic delight. "You're all set, Mr. Redfield. Would you like a sucker, since you were such a great patient and all?"

"Ha-ha." His nose crumpled and he glared vehemently at the Band-Aid. "I don't understand why I have to get vaccinated anyways."

Lisa released the needle into a box marked, "Biological Waste" and threw the plastic wrappings into a stainless steel trash bin. "It's standard procedure, you know that. All B.S.A.A. agents are to be vaccinated – if a vaccine is available – against every biological weapon. Uroboros is a new, combined strain of viruses. You and Sheva Alomar killed its developers – Albert Wesker, Excella Gionne and Ricardo Irving – but it's not impossible that those in Africa weren't the only samples. Besides, researchers involved in the project likely fled and Umbrella's executives haven't given up either. The B.S.A.A. is currently investigating Tricell's researchers, but any who knew about the project and Wesker's death likely turned tail – quite possibly with samples of their own to incubate or sell. Add in thousands of terrorist organizations who would love to get their hands on a biological weapon of Uroboros' power and the B.S.A.A. is taking all precautions possible to ensure its members' safety."

His temples throbbed painfully. Truth be told, he hadn't thought about it before. He'd allowed himself to foolishly believe that Wesker and bio-terrorism were one in the same. With Wesker dead, so too was the threat. But Wesker had only been a by-product of Umbrella's research. Terrorists and wannabe superheroes – or super villains – allowed Umbrella's viral legacy to thrive, and made Chris' job harder. Retirement was an ideal fantasy; if he was lucky enough to live to an old age, he'd continue to fight, though perhaps in a less intimate fashion.

Live...

Chris sat up and searched for Lisa beyond the plastic curtain. After finishing with the next patient's chart, she prepared a new syringe at the counter, measuring the vaccine and releasing air bubbles. He rose slowly from the bed, careful for creaks, and gnashed his teeth against the sudden pain in his shoulder. He quickly thumbed through the manila files stacked on the aluminum table until he found the one with a tag that read, "Valentine, Jill".

He glanced repeatedly over his shoulder, listening when his back was turned, trying to keep track of Lisa. Jill was in room 312 and since they'd returned to the United States two days ago, underwent a series of tests in the wake of the experimentation Wesker performed on her body. The results were due back at the end of the week.

Fifteen minutes later, after he'd carefully replaced the file, Lisa returned to make sure he was all right. "Everything looks good. You're free to go, but I'd advise taking it easy for the next twenty-four hours. If you start feeling strange, contact your physician as soon as possible."

Because the last thing we need is Uroboros spreading across North America, continued her threatening stare. Chris nodded uncomfortably and gathered his wallet, coat and keys before leaving. He followed the hall to an elevator and rode it to the lobby. Doctors, nurses and visitors stood outside in groups along the sidewalk with cigarettes and brown paper bags filled with fruit, plastic-wrapped sandwiches and cans of soda.

He crossed the street at the stop light and darted through traffic on the way back. On the third floor of the hospital, he avoided nurses with their faces buried in charts and elderly patients dragging wheeled IV units. When he found room 312, he paused before entering, drawing a long, deep breath and subconsciously adjusting his hair and smoothing his t-shirt.

Slowly, he peered around the doorframe, then back over his shoulder, and when he was sure there were no doctors or nurses about to shoo him away, stepped inside.

It looked like every other hospital room: blindingly white, sterile, Spartan. Besides the bed, there was a round table with two chairs and a television mounted on the wall above. A curtain parted one bed from the other, each with its own collection of monitors, pumps and tangled array of wires and plastic tubing. Beyond the window stretched a parking lot and towering structures – office buildings, churches, multi-level shopping malls – to the horizon.

Only half conscious of the attractive – but overweight – celebrity chef on the television stirring spaghetti sauce in a pot, Jill rolled her head in his direction and blinked back a film of ennui from her pale blue eyes. Her skin was ashen with grey bags, grey lips and protruding cheekbones. Her hair, a matted mess of wiry, greasy, bleached blonde, spread across the pillows.

"Chris..." she said with more effort than necessary.

"Hey," he responded and discovered – beyond his control – that he was whispering. Somehow, being with her again felt like a dream; but unlike the nightmares that had plagued him since his days in S.T.A.R.S., this one he didn't want to wake from. "How're you feeling?"

"Years of cryostasis and mental comatose and all I want to do is sleep. Ironic." She blinked slowly and tilted her head, as though the new angle would provide her a better view of whatever was behind his back. "What's that?"

Chris' brows rose and fell in a failed attempt at innocence. He grinned and raised the bag like a crown. "I give you: the Jill sandwich!"

Jill laughed shortly, hearing Barry's voice in her head. "Jill sandwich, huh?"

"Made exactly as you like it courtesy of the deli down the street. The food here's shit, so I thought it'd be a nice treat."

"You're a prince," she said and pointed to the table across the room. "Put it over there; I'll eat it later."

As he turned and set the bag just right that the sauces wouldn't drip, he realized the subconscious aversion of his gaze. She'd never made him...nervous before. After a long moment of silence, he cleared his throat and thumbed through a stack of outdated magazines.

"So, how long are you here for?"

From the bed, Jill drew a long, deep, tired breath. "I don't know to be honest. The B.S.A.A.'s investigation into Tricell's connection with Umbrella uncovered all sorts of frightening data. Aside from that, Wesker's research files were hacked and decoded.

"Apparently, the only reason he rescued me after what happened at Spencer's estate was because my exposure to the NE-T virus allowed my body to develop antibodies against the virus. On top of wanting to research the potency of these anti-bodies, the doctors want to ensure that the NE-T virus hasn't relapsed and that the P30 Wesker administered to keep me in his control hasn't done any permanent damage."

Chris glanced over his shoulder briefly, fighting his surprise. The pinpricks between her breasts crept out from beneath the plastic fabric of her gown; an ugly reminder of her years of servitude in Africa. He set his jaw. "Sometimes sacrifices must be made. I'm sure you understand that more than anyone."

She glanced away, as though suddenly ashamed. He made her actions in Spencer's mansion seem so noble, so selfless, when the truth was they were the complete opposite. She couldn't bear the thought of losing him to Wesker. She couldn't bear the thought of his life ending by a quick thrust of their former leader's – friend's – hand. She couldn't bear the thought of being alone, without him there to support her, to protect her, to...

"It was my fault," Chris said, prompting a startled stare and parted lips. "I was weak and arrogant and I thought I could take Wesker on myself."

"You weren't weak, Chris."

He smiled meekly, appreciating the gesture. "Yes I was. But I swore by your grave that I wouldn't let you down again, that I wouldn't let anyone down. I made my promise to Claire not to die, and I made a promise to you. I would become stronger, and wipe Umbrella's mess right off the planet. Why else do you think I trained so hard?"

And he flexed his bicep until she could see the veins bulge beneath his skin. She laughed and patted his arm gently. But instead of pulling back, her fingertips started moving in slow, small circles over the tough, sun-touched skin. Jill felt her heart throb in her chest and listened to the flux in her vitals on the monitors. If Chris noticed, he said nothing, and was as fixed on the sudden sensuality of her touch as she was.

They'd always touched before as friends, as partners; a palm-numbing high five, a pat on the shoulder, a last minute yank out of a sticky situation. There was new emotion in her fingers this time, a tenderness that reminded her of his arms in the ancient African ruins. It was a sense of comfort; a safe haven.

"Jill..." Chris' skin burned, his normally concrete thoughts a jumble of flashbacks emphasized by sensation: fear, loss, relief, surprise, love.

He wanted to tell her – but how could he describe – the heart-stopping shock and equally lifting jubilation he'd felt when Wesker drew back the patterned hood to reveal her expressionless face? It didn't matter that she tried to kill him; every thrust of her elbow into his solar plexus, every crunch of her fist against his jaw, every Pascal of pressure she'd put around his throat reminded him that she was alive; she was more than a memory or hopeful delusion. And how could he admit to the blood-warming stirring in his belly as she'd wriggled against his strength like a captured bird? Or the brief thoughts that filtered through his mind when he straddled her hips and pulled the device on her chest?

He cleared his throat, not wanting to remember and feeling dirty for doing so, and drew back feet away. Jill blinked rapidly, waking from the daze she'd fallen into and glanced away with slight colour in her cheeks. Silence stretched between them. Chris scratched the back of his neck. Jill tugged at a loose thread in the sheets. They both prayed for divine intervention, a convenient interruption to distract their running thoughts.

Then Jill yawned and he suppressed a sigh of relief as he turned towards the door. "I...I just stopped by to see how you're doing. I should probably let you get some rest though."

She shook her head. "You don't have to leave though; I like the company."

He wanted to say no, but she looked so lonely, so...broken that he nodded stiffly. "Okay."

She smiled. "Pull up a chair."

So he did, and sat by the bed and faced the TV. Jill reached for his hand, twining her thin fingers between his short, bulky ones. "Thanks Chris, for everything."

He smiled in return and they spoke no more. Within ten minutes, Jill was asleep. A nurse came in and out twice, surprised at first when she saw him there, but didn't escort him out as he expected she would. When she noticed their hands and the look in his eyes, she smiled and checked Jill's vitals before slipping out again unnoticed.

Chris watched her go the second time, waiting until her shadow vanished down the hall. He turned away from the TV, no longer interested – or perhaps never – in the program and rocked his hand slightly. "Jill?"

She lay still, her breathing steady, her lashes fluttering in dream.

"You're wrong about me, Jill," he whispered, knowing she couldn't hear, but satisfied with it that way. "I'm not strong. I'm not a superhero, no matter what Sheva says. Every victory I've ever won has been by luck, and by the help of others. First, the Tyrant 'killing' Wesker – He probably would have shot us otherwise – and then the facility in Antarctica exploding. Hell, it was a fortunate accident Excella dropped Wesker's drug and I'm sure I wouldn't have even had the opportunity to use it had Sheva not been there, or had you not told us what it was for.

"And God, in Spencer's manor... I could have died, had it not been for you." He chewed on the corner of his lip. "But, you know, as hard as it was losing you, all I could think about these last few years was that you'd died and I never told you how I really felt about you.

"I thought about it a lot. I always have, ever since we met. When I was a kid – well, you know. I was an adult, but a kid compared to now. But anyways, that's not important – What's important is that back then, I tried to psyche myself into asking you out. You were this pretty, young woman who knew how to kick some serious ass. But, you knew how to play the piano like some kind of Victorian noblewoman and you got scared easily. I figured it was the best of both worlds: your tomboy attitude made you like Claire, someone I could be friends with, while you were still a woman, still someone who might need me.

"But I was scared of rejection and then all of this happened. In the back of my mind, I wondered where we could have ended up if I just said something. If I told you I loved you, and if you loved me too, would our lives be different? Would we have gotten married and had a family? Would we have given up this heroic lifestyle?

"And that's the problem. I'm sure, even if you love me, nothing would change. We do what we do because we're free of personal attachments. You threw yourself out a window because no one would mourn your passing, but praise it as martyrdom. We can fight because it's our only reason for living. If we die, we won't leave anyone behind. We don't fear making the world a better place."

He laughed once shortly. "It's ironic. For twelve years all I've ever wanted to do was tell you that I love you. And now that I have the chance to, I still can't. So you see, Jill, I'm nothing but a coward pretending to be a hero."

Finished, he watched her intently for a second, and collapsed against the back of the chair, a decade-long weight lifted off his shoulders. He didn't feel any different – he still wanted her as much as he always had; he still hated himself for not being strong enough – but perhaps now that he'd finally gotten everything out, even to an unconscious Jill, he could start to move on. He could begin to accept that partners was the closest they've ever come to an intimate relationship. He could begin to let her go, to regard her as he did Sheva: a good friend, a sister, whom he could fight for, could sacrifice for, but without the crippling side effects of loss.

He rose slowly from the chair, prying Jill's hand open as gently as he could, so not to wake her, and slipped out to let her rest. His scuffing footsteps lumbered down the hall and when the room was filled only with the periodic beating of technical equipment, Jill Valentine opened her eyes.

"Chris..."

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**Disclaimer: **_Resident Evil_ and its related characters belong to Capcom and all respected creators.

**Author's Note: **The name "Lisa" and room number 312 are both from _Silent Hill._

Chris x Jill is my new ship. It's actually the only pairing (cannon and non) that I support in the series. Okay, I'll joke about Wesker x Chris but I don't support it. I think Wesker x Excella is cute, but Wesker doesn't love anyone but himself. And Ada's a bitch to Leon; I feel bad for him.

An interesting tidbit: Chris' current voice actor (who portrayed him in _Resident Evil 5_, _Darkside Chronicles_ and in both the upcoming _Resident Evil Revelations _and _Marvel vs. Capcom 3_) is also in the English dub of _Code Geass _as Guilford, who was in my previous fan fic.


	2. 2

**Second Chances - 2**  
(a Resident Evil fan fic)

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Where am I?_ she wonders._ Am I dead? Is Chris all right?

_She wants to open her eyes, but her thoughts are disconnected from the rest of her body. Her skin feels like stone, unyielding, and her joints like boiled noodles. She's suspended in something, a kind of liquid, yet she's calm. She does not fear drowning. She does not fear death._

_Perhaps this _is_ death. Perhaps this is all there is: lonely, liquid darkness. _

_No...wait...Beyond her lids she senses light. A halo around a broad figure. Is it God?_

_A tap against the glass. "How are you doing in there, my dear? Still alive it appears; remarkable. I was wise in preserving you." She discovers it's not God, but the Devil himself. _

_Her watery prison runs dry with a hiss and a rush. She can breathe air again. Her eyes open slowly. Her vision is hazy, but there's no mistaking. _

_She wants to strike him, to bury a bullet in his brain and watch it come out the other side and splash across the wall. She wants to cut off his head and stab a stake through his heart, the vampire that he is. She wants to smack the smirk off his lips or spit into his eyes. She wants him to suffer._

_But her body sits as still as a statue until he tells her to rise. Then, like an automated doll, her knees bend, her weight shifts forward, and she climbs to her feet. She's helpless. He whispers and she obeys. She tries to fight. When she does, her body objects, every nerve and vein alight, as though afire with white-hot electricity. _

_He gives her a vial. She accepts it. He tells her to administer it. She administers it. He tells her to kill. She kills. When the pain begins to subside and her limbs begin to obey her thoughts, she thinks she has the chance to run, or at the very least fight back._

_But he's monitoring her. He knows, even when she pretends, that the drug is wearing off. He's always been powerful, more so than her, and overpowers her fragile form with ease. The needle burns in her neck; she can feel herself losing control again. She's his toy, just like everyone else...only she's aware. _

_He's like a bratty child with a God complex. She muses that he probably burnt ants with a magnifying glass in his youth, just to prove that he could do it. Just to watch them suffer. He must've smiled the same way he smiles now: cold and venomous. _

_Her body is a prison. She loses track of time. Day and night, seconds and hours are all the same. Waves of more and less control. Needles. His orders. It's all become a jumble in her head. She no longer knows what are his demands and her thoughts. Somewhere, deep in her heart, she prays that someone will come and rescue her. But the months and years go by and she starts to lose hope._

_No one's coming. There's no sense in resisting now. She's lost. He's won. She can only pray that something will stop him, stop _them _someday. She prays goodness will prevail, just as it does in classic fairytales and Hollywood movies. She prays _he'll _come. He's the only one who can._

_Then, he tells her, he's gotten her a gift. "All women should have jewellery," he slurs and unwraps the arachnid-shaped device from inside a velvet-lined polished box. It's an ovular container with six prongs to administer his mind-controlling drug at a steady rate. _

_She's under his spell and cannot run away, even when he tugs gently on the zipper at her throat. His fingers are cold and smell like leather and her skin breaks out in shivers. The zipper slides lower, down her neck and between her breasts. Her face is stiff, blank, but she's crying inside._

"_What do you think Chris would do," he asked, cupping his hand around her breast, "if he knew? It would be rather amusing to see, don't you think?"_

_._

Jill wasn't in a very celebratory mood, though there was surely much to celebrate.

There'd been little change in the global biological weapons market, which wasn't exactly a bad thing. Since Umbrella's fall, the B.S.A.A. knew their samples were circulating. It had taken over a decade to reach this point and would take few more before there was any significant change in threat. But at the same time, there'd been no signs of Uroboros and it had been officially six months since the mission in Africa concluded.

Six months since the strain of Urobors in Africa had been neutralized. Six months since Albert Wesker finally met his demise. Six months since Jill Valentine, for all intents and purposes, came back from the dead.

The B.S.A.A. had rented out a country club for the occasion. The walls were covered in balloons and streamers of all colours and a hand-painted banner that read: _Congratulations_. Attached to the main dance hall was a window that looked into the kitchen where the club's employees sold soda and drinks. At the end close to the window and near an emergency exit, dozens of round tables had been arranged with white table cloths that glowed blue in the black light, and ceramic bowls of munchies. Chairs had been moved from table to table, cluttering walk ways and changing sitters every few moments.

At the other end of the hall was a large space for dancing in front of a slightly raised stage for a live band and DJ who switched control after five songs each. Lights above changed colours and drifted along the floor, quickening or slowing at the pace of the song.

Everyone who'd ever been involved with Umbrella's biological weapons - from Racoon City to South America - was in attendance. Claire Redfield was gyrating on the dance floor to the latest Top 20 hits in a short skirt and painful heels along with a grown up Sherry Birkin and Sheva Alomar, who'd traded a simply ponytail and combat gear for a gold dress, matching stilettos and a blonde bob. Rebecca Chambers – who may or may not have been a little tipsy – was laughing and stumble-dancing with a dark-haired man who looked an awful lot like the presumably deceased Billy Coen. Ingrid Hunnigan, Leon's go-to-gal, nursed a wine spritzer a table away from the men, though repeatedly escaped into the hall to answer a phone call or page.

Near the kitchen window, Chris, Leon Kennedy and Carlos Oliveira sat with some men Jill hadn't seen before. With them was Angela Miller – a member of the S.R.T. unit, whom Leon met the year before in Harvardville –Ashley Graham, looking every bit the president's daughter in her designer dress and glittering jewels, and a foreign girl who sat silently and glanced repeatedly at Leon as though for comfort and assurance. Close by, Barry Burton and his family were at a table with an Indian woman and her young niece, whom Jill learned was named Rani and had gotten caught up in the Harvardville Airport outbreak. Like Sherry, Jill wondered how well such a young child was coping with the effects of such a horrific episode.

There were others that Jill hadn't seen before – an African American with blonde hair (natural, unlike Sheva's party store bought wig), a bald man who must have been in his sixties, a quiet man standing in the corner, a young Japanese woman who seemed more interested in her laptop and a blonde middle-aged lady who's perpetual scowl assumed she was somehow better than everyone else. Then again, knowing everyone here had lived the same nightmare as she made it seem like, though she didn't know their names or their life's stories, they were all…connected somehow.

Jill stood in the corridor outside the dance hall, where the music was muted and a far enough distance that she wasn't imposing on Hunnigan's privacy. She thought about escaping into the bathroom until a flustered voice called to her.

"Jill!" She half-turned and watched a tall man with a brown mullet looking dashing in a brown jacket and jeans, standing outside the entrance and swing is head from side to side. He combed his fingers through his hair and flashed a crooked smile. "I thought I saw you slip out here."

She stood with a slight lean and drew up the corners of her lips. "Carlos. It's been a while."

"It has," he agreed, sounding slightly winded, as though he'd been frantic in his search for her. "You look good."

A warm flush rose to Jill's cheeks and neck. She'd selected a navy blue cocktail dress for the evening, accessorised with a pearl bracelet and matching necklace in an attempt to hide the vicious scars on her chest. "Thanks. You clean up well yourself."

He chuckled briefly and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, scratching the back of his neck for no reason other than he had to do something with his hands.

Jill sighed to herself. It'd been years since they'd seen one another last; he'd changed somehow. He was older, certainly, with wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that hadn't been there before. The stubble beneath his nose and chin was dark and thick without being full and she could see silver hairs starting to crop up among the brown. He was only in his thirties, but it appeared time had not been kind to him; time hadn't been kind to any of them, she decided.

"It's good to see you. I hadn't heard from you after Racoon City, so I…"

He laughed as cocky as she remembered. "Did you worry about lil ol' me?"

She frowned with an underlying smirk and poked him in the chest. "Of course not! You should have gone down with all of the other Umbrella scum."

Quicker than she expected he would, he grabbed both her wrists in one of his and brought his face close enough that she could smell the light aroma of beer on his breath. His eyelids dropped with his brow, and he asked softly, "Do you really think I'm Umbrella scum?"

Jill listened closely, but couldn't tell if his inquiry was serious or a joke. Her response was a stuttering, "I...I just…uh…" She wished he would let go of her arm.

Then he smiled and pinched her chin with his other hand and for a moment Jill thought he was going to kiss her, he leaned in that close. The heat of his breath on her mouth made the hairs on her neck raise and a tremble coursed through her. "I'm joking, Chica."

Inside, couples were assembling on the dance floor. Carlos raised his brows and tugged gently on her wrists. "Would you like to dance?"

She was still reeling and it took a moment before she heard what he said. "Uh…I don't know."

"I'm sure you're not much of a party-girl, but I don't know anyone else and you looked so lonely here all by yourself." The corners of his mouth stretched until they looked like they were going to split. "Just one. Please?"

Feeling her comfort come back, she sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. "Fiiiine. But only one. I need a few more drinks before I agree to make a fool of myself."

They stopped in the center of the dance floor, among other couples. To her right, an American and his Chinese girlfriend swayed with their faces close together, whispering something she couldn't make out. A bubbly blonde giggled every time her awkward, professional-looking partner put his hand on her hip. Rebecca's mysterious stranger seemed more to be holding her up than dancing, and Josh, she noticed, hadn't taken him a moment to hook up with Sheva. Even Leon abandoned his drab vigil and – to Ashley's dismay – in a series of gentle laughs following tangled feet, danced with Manuela nearest the DJ.

By the first note, Jill recognized it as her favourite song, and immediately discovered her body responding to the music, swaying and drawing closer to Carlos' tall and firm form. They didn't speak as they danced; so instead, she let him take the lead, his hands on her hips and hers on his shoulders, and guide her in slight circles. She closed her eyes and set her head on his shoulder and felt every muscle, from her brow to her toes, let go.

"_For twelve years all I've ever wanted to do was tell you that I love you."_

"Chris…" she slurred. "I love you too…"

Carlos blinked out of his own stupor. "Hm? Jill, did you say something?"

Her eyes flew open, as though from a nightmare and she stood up straight, bringing their dance to a haphazard stop, and stepped back. "What?"

"What? I thought you said something, but the music's so loud."

"I…" Jill's head turned about erratically. The swinging spotlights made it difficult to see, but she was sure Chris was still at the table with the other men, brooding over plastic cups of booze. And he could see her – see them – together like some sort of couple.

"I'm sorry Carlos, I'm not feeling too well," she said, and before he could get a word in edgewise, "I'm sorry." And she bolted from the hall and into the first available bathroom stall.

.

**Disclaimer: **_Resident Evil_ and its related characters belong to Capcom and all respected creators.

**Author's Note: **Every character mentioned at the party was a protagonist in a _Resident Evil _game (not necessarily the cannon series) at some point with an alive status. For details on who everyone is – especially those who hadn't any contact with the main cast – refer to the "Protagonists" page of the _Resident Evil _wikia. Others include side characters who appeared in the games on the side of the good guys and survived their ordeals (as in the case of Manuela and Rani).


	3. 3

**Second Chances - 3**  
(a Resident Evil fan fic)

.

This blew.

The B.S.A.A.'s celebration was supposed to be just that; a celebration. A time for people to eat, drink and dance, to have fun and loosen up. God knew they were as tightly wound as a spring most of the time. He couldn't remember a time when his senses weren't on high alert, or his heart hadn't responded to ever creak or pop. He couldn't remember when last he'd slept fitfully through the night.

Holding his cup to the light, Chris frowned and jiggled it from side to side, hoping it was just his inebriated blindness that made it seem empty. He bit the edge of the cup and threw his head back with almost enough force to throw out his neck, and lapped up the last alcoholic drops. When he was dissatisfied that the cup was, indeed, dry as a bone, he glanced over his shoulder, wondering how many clumsy steps it was to the window for another round. He was hoping enough booze would knock him out for the evening, or at least make him forget.

So far, he was shit out of luck. As conscious and "sober" as ever. Especially of Jill and _Carlos_. He wanted to spit – and almost did – just thinking about the chap with _his _girl. Ah, no. He caught himself; that was the booze talking. Jill wasn't his girl, but God how he wanted her to be.

He wanted to stand up to his full 6'1" height and punch that suave mercenary into next Sunday. And with another drink or two he probably would have, until he saw Jill back away from Carlos, shaking her head, and run out of the room. He stood up involuntarily, wondering what the creep had done to her – and once again feeling the urge to hit him pump through his blood like liquid heat.

Chris slipped between throngs of chairs and pushed his way past the dancing couples, sometimes between them – ignorant was he to the glares that followed in his wake – and grabbed Carlos roughly by the shoulder. Carlos scrunched his nose against the stench of alcohol that wafted off his person and pushed both hands firmly into Chris' solar plexus.

"What the hell, dude?"

"What did you do to her?" Chris growled and curled his massive hand into a fist. He imagined the satisfying crunch and spurt of sticky blood that would accompany an agonizing groan as that fist found its way through Carlos' oh-so—hunky Latino face.

"Who?"

"Jill! Jill! What the hell did you do to Jill?"

Carlos shoved him away and smoothed his jacket. Around them, multiple heads had turned to stare. Leon stepped away from Manuela and put his hand on Chris' shoulder. Even Claire and Sheva had abandoned their partners and approached slowly. Both instinctively reached for their thighs, to firearms that weren't there.

"Chris, you're sloshed; back off before you do something you're going to regret," Leon said, his head as cool as ever.

"What happened?" Claire asked.

"This asshole did something to Jill," Chris snapped and jabbed his finger in Carlos' direction. "She ran out of here." He reached for Carlos' collar and dragged him close. "I swear, if you touched her or something…"

"What? No! I didn't _do _anything," Carlos argued. "One minute we were dancing and the next, she ran away. She was saying something but I don't know what happened. I swear!"

Claire wrapped both of her arms around her brothers elbow and applied slight pressure. "Chris, come on. Leon's right; you're not thinking clearly. Besides, I believe him." She lowered her voice. "Jill's a tough girl. If he'd done something, she would have said something, not run; you know that."

Chris glared at her so frigidly that she almost cowered. But she was old enough to know when to stand up to her brother and she clenched her teeth to keep her composure and narrowed her eyes with silent threat. Chris' lip curled and his fingers relaxed and he drew back a step as Carlos dropped from the slight height Chris had raised him to.

Claire's lips bore a slight smile and she tugged on his arm. "Good. Now how about a dance? Nothing too wild 'cause you'll probably hurl."

"I'm not dancing with you," Chris said, feeling all the warm blood that made his heart race rise to his face.

Claire giggled at his frustration. "What? You used to all the time when we were kids. Remember?"

"No."

"You don't? Come on. We used to dress up in the basement in all those old Halloween costumes. Dad videotaped it once."

Chris' face darkened. "No, I don't know what you're talking about. Please just stop talking."

"Yeah; you wore the prince costume and I was a princess."

"Shut up, Claire."

"What? We were kids. It didn't mean anything." She tugged on his hand again. "Come on; for old time's sake?"

"NO!"

Claire planted her hands on her hips, standing with a slight lean. "Fine. But you should be thanking me. I got you to stop thinking about Jill for a moment, didn't I?"

Chris opened his mouth to respond, but froze. She was right. For a moment, even a short one, he'd forgotten all about Jill and that she'd just run from the hall after something Carlos may or may not have done. He exhaled deeply in defeat and jabbed his fingers into Claire's shoulder. "Thanks."

"What are little sister's for?" she asked and then drew closer so she had only to whisper. Leon and the others had scattered, deciding that Claire had her brother under control, and Carlos wasn't in any more danger. "But, if you're still worried – and knowing you, you are – then go and talk to her. I think she went to the ladies room, but she'll come out eventually and she's vulnerable."

Chris raised one brow. In response, Claire smiled and winked. "Don't play coy. I know you, Chris. You've liked Jill for years. Now's your chance: Wesker's dead and without him, your war on bio-terrorism will be much easier; I'm sure of it. Put aside your pride and just do it. Tell her how you feel. Didn't it tear you up losing her once before?"

She was right. Claire had been there for him after Jill supposedly died at Spencer's European estate. She'd put her Terra Save duties on hold to make sure he was all right, and to ensure he didn't do something stupid to himself or to anyone else. She'd cooked for him for weeks, bought all of the groceries, cleaned his apartment and made sure he woke every morning and continued with his work. He thought she'd only done it because she was his sister; it was sort of her job, just as it was his to bail her out and protect her if she needed it.

But now...as she spoke about Jill and the feelings for her she knew he had, he saw something in her expression that he hadn't seen in years.

"You still miss him, don't you?" he asked.

Claire nodded and absently tucked aside a strand of red hair. Suddenly, the tips of her shoes had become very interesting. "There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about Steve, wondering where we could be if we'd gotten to him before Wesker...if Alexia hadn't administered that virus." She shook her head. "But I lost him to powers I couldn't control. I don't want to see you choose to do the same."

Raising his hand to her face, Chris' expression softened and he leaned over to kiss her gently on the cheek. "You're a good kid, Claire. I'm lucky to have you for a sister."

Claire looked up, suddenly peeved. "Kid? You jerk, I'm only six years younger than you!"

He shrugged, backing away with a laugh and darted across the room while Claire shook her fist behind him.

.

Jill sat precariously on the uncovered toilet seat, fully dressed, with her face in her hands. Her stomach flipped in her belly; she wanted to throw up and wondered why she'd come out at all tonight. She wanted to be at home, asleep in her bed, even if sleeping would resurrect the nightmares she tried so hard to forget. It was better than being here with...

The bathroom door creaked open and a man's voice startled her. "Jill? Are you in here?"

"Chris!" she yelped and bolted off the toilet. Her purse struck the knob and the toilet flushed. The door was closed and the way the bathroom was designed, he wouldn't have been able to see her even if it hadn't been, but she subconsciously began smoothing her skirt and running her fingers through her hair. "What are you doing in here?"

"I'm actually still standing out here," he said.

Jill frowned. "I meant why are you talking to me while I'm in the washroom?"

"I'm sorry. You ran out of there in a hurry and I wanted to make sure you were okay. I didn't realize you actually came in here to...you know..."

She threw the latch on the stall door and walked out, her heels clicking against the linoleum. "I'm okay, Chris. I wasn't...you know," she said and ventured out to join him in the hall. They walked a few feet in silence before stopping and leaning against the wall.

Jill sat on her hands and stared at her toes. She could feel his gaze on her and she wondered what he was thinking.

"Are you all right?" he asked after a long moment. "Carlos didn't do anything to you, did he?"

"What?" she raised and shook her head. "No. No. Carlos didn't do anything. I just needed some space. Some time to be by myself, y'know?"

"Oh." He sounded disappointed and considered heading back to the party. "I'm sorry for disturbing you then."

Again she shook her head and pressed her hand to his chest to stop him from leaving. "No, it's okay. I don't mind." Then she smiled. "I'm flattered you were concerned about me though."

He shrugged it off as though anyone would have done the same. "You're my partner."

She waited for him to say more. When he didn't, she smiled meekly. "Partner...right."

They stood for a while longer, resuming their earlier stances, alone with their thoughts. Since learning of Chris' true feelings, she'd been unable to look at him the same way. She reanalyzed their entire lives together, wondering if his feelings had been the driving force in everything they'd experienced together. Had he listened to her when she'd spoken, or all the while was he imagining what it would be like to kiss her? Every time he'd thrown her out of harm's way, or caught her from falling, had his heart skipped in passion instead of adrenaline? When she'd gone over to his apartment that night, all those years ago, had he wanted more than to tell her of his investigation? As he'd seen her with Carlos just now, what had he been thinking? She had to know...

"It's kind of boring, isn't it? This party," she said.

He nodded almost tiredly. "I think you have to be a certain kind of person to enjoy it."

"Not conservative old geezers like us, right?" she laughed lightly and elbowed him in the rib.

"Right."

Her heart raced and leaped into her throat. "I'm thinking about calling it quits for the night. My feet are sore and I'm getting tired. Would you like a lift home?"

He knew he was too drunk to drive even if he'd had his truck with him, and nodded. Claire was having fun and he didn't want to be the pathetic third wheel in anyone else's party. "Sure."

"Or," she said, almost as an afterthought. "Maybe you'd like to chill at my place for a little bit? We haven't had much time to really talk since we got back to the States. I can make some coffee; I know it's a fallacy, but it might help with your..." She twirled her finger, gesturing to his head.

"Drunken stupor and inevitable hangover? Sounds like a solid game plan." He glanced towards the dance hall. "Should we tell them we're going?"

Jill shook her head, feeling light-headed and fished through her purse for her car keys. "They're all having fun. I doubt anyone will notice."

He saw no reason to argue and followed her out into the dark lot. There were streetlights on, bathing the road in orange light and long shadows. Her car was parked close to the street and the headlights flashed as she used a keychain to turn on the ignition as they approached. The engine roared to life and the doors unlocked and the radio played old tunes at an almost inaudible volume.

"You can change the station if you want," she said when they were seated. She started checking all of her mirrors and around the car before she pulled out. "Or turn it up. Whatever."

"It's okay. I feel a headache coming on anyways." He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes, listening to the quiet words of the song. He couldn't recall the title, but it didn't really matter.

Jill left the parking lot and merged into traffic. It was late, though not terribly so. The streets were fairly empty and the at many intersections, the traffic lights had been switched to blinking amber instead of solid, alternating colours. Large chain stores and restaurants were still alive with customers while family-owned outlets illuminated closed signs in dark windows.

"I noticed you dyed your hair," Chris said, thinking of something to talk about. In all the years they'd been partners, their conversations had generally revolved around Wesker and Umbrella and bio-terrorism. He wasn't very good at small talk.

"Yeah," she said and without thinking tugged on a loose strand.

"You didn't like the blonde?"

"You did?" she asked, glancing at him and for a moment she was afraid. Had he preferred her as a blonde? Perhaps that was why it had taken him so long to admit his feelings – true, he hadn't been aware she was awake in the hospital, but from the way he spoke, she assumed he hadn't even admitted to himself is true feelings until just then – because he hadn't been attracted to short, brown-haired, tomboy Jill, but to the more feminine, spandex-wearing blonde?

"No. I mean, yes," he said, flustered. "Well, I mean, I didn't dislike it. It wasn't a bad look. I was more concerned about your skin. It was like grey. But the hair was a certainly a change."

"Oh." She looked out the windshield. It started to sprinkle rain. Not hard enough to need the wipers yet, but it made it difficult to see.

"But you didn't like it?" he asked when a moment had gone by.

She shrugged and said quietly, "It reminded me too much of Wesker. I hated being so helpless and having to do all those things for him: administer Uroboros, beat on people, _kill _people. Not to mention hurting you." _In more ways than you know..._

"Wesker was a coward," Chris stated. "He was always using people to get what he wanted. But he's dead and for good this time."

Sometimes Jill really wondered. How many times had that man beaten death? It seemed an open and shut case: not only had he been administered too much of his personal drug, but Uroboros had taken him over and he'd burned in an active volcano before being decapitated by rockets. And still...a part of her was afraid he had survived that too. She was afraid he'd come back and find them and this time, kill them for real.

Her legs trembled as she climbed out of the car when they'd pulled up in front of her building. She felt like the intoxicated one and leaned on Chris' arm as they climbed the stairs to her apartment on the fourth floor. She tensed as she unlocked the door and switched on the lights and entering, she made a habit of checking every room before finally allowing herself to breathe easily.

"Would you mind if I went to change quickly?" she asked. "I'm not comfortable in these sorts of clothes."

"That's fine. Can I put on the coffee?" He pointed to the kitchen. "I'm guessing it's all right in here."

Jill nodded and took a step back, then turned and walked briskly into the bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she unzipped the back of her dress and stepped out of the crumpled heap that dropped to the floor. She threw it in the laundry basket and picked up an old, oversized t-shirt. She glanced at herself in the mirror hanging on the inside of her closet before putting it on. Since coming home, she'd tried to get more sun and ate more than she otherwise would have, hoping to gain back some of the colour she'd lost in her skin. But three years of chemicals took a while to pass through her body and besides extra fat that she'd worked into muscle and the darkness of her hair thanks to the dye, she hardly looked different than she had in Africa. The holes on her chest where Wesker's device had steadily pumped drugs into her bloodstream were as prominent as ever, the flesh around them still bulging with plumped veins and she wondered if it'd ever heal.

She pulled on the t-shirt and untucked her hair from the collar, pausing suddenly and drew closer to the mirror. She dragged her hands through her hair over and over, feeling the soft thickness of it. She curled her fingers around the strands and pinched her face and tugged just hard enough to make the roots ache.

.

_He drags a handful of hair through his gloved fingers, as though admiring the threads of an expensive Persian rug. He brings his face close to hers and she, in her catatonic state of full consciousness, can do nothing but sit silently. She can smell his breath – it smells of mint, as though he'd just brushed his teeth and she wonders if he had, or if that is how he always smells: clean, despite the chaos and death that surround him – and feel the tingle of the air between their lips, he's that close._

"_You look so much prettier with your hair long. So much more like a lady," he says and traces her bottom lip with his thumb. "Did you grow it out for him? Hope that he would see you as more than his butch partner?"_

_Using no more effort than she would have picking up a sheet of paper, he lifts her and throws her up against a wall. Against her bare back, it's cold and metallic and covered in grime. They're alone in this place while somewhere nearby workers in hazmat suits cart biological waste and specimens into crates marked with the Tricell logo. _

_She wonders where Excella is, and what she would think if she saw them now. God knew how that woman felt about Wesker – and only He knew why, for what purpose she had allowed her heart to be stolen by him – even if he felt no more affection for her in return than he did a stray dog. For some reason she couldn't explain, it saddened her, and for both their sakes, she prayed Excella stayed far away from this place, from them._

"_I've always know, you know. You two never really hid your feelings all that well, even if you pretended like they didn't matter. I knew, Barry knew. The whole goddamn unit knew." _

"_You probably thought you were doing something noble, giving up a life together for the betterment of the world. Haven't you realized by now that people don't deserve it? You fight and sacrifice for people who don't give a damn. Instead, they take everything you worked so hard for and throw it all away with their own bombs and wars and selfish, immoral ways. There's no such thing as love or respect or honour or pride. I have made millions of dollars selling Umbrella's viruses on the black market for people to use against one another. They pay me to destroy! They've killed their own God and revel in sin and vice. People don't need saving; they need judgement."_

_His lips stretch into that devious smile she hates so much. He plants his hands on the wall on either side of her face so she couldn't escape even if she had the ability to. "And you, oh holy saints, have ruined my plans one time too many. I want you and your lover boy to pay. So I'm going to strike the greatest blow before ever he realizes it and take what he was too noble to..."_

.

Hot, angry tears welled in Jill's eyes. She turned from the mirror and tore open the draw of the table beside her bed. It was a junky drawer filled with half-empty lip gloss containers, bookmarks, dull pencils and dry pens, shiney, coloured rocks, hair pins and receipts. She pulled out a yellowed photo of their own S.T.A.R.S. team. Everyone was there, smiling, happy...With a scream, she tore the picture right through _Captain_ Wesker's face and continued her sifting. Finally, she found was she was looking for: a pair of long, sharp scissors.

She turned back to the mirror and glared viciously at her reflection. She clutched all of her hair in one hand and pulled it over her shoulder. Clenching her teeth until her skull throbbed, she pulled open the scissors and haphazardly hacked away a good six inches.

Hearing the screams and rummaging, Chris abandoned the coffeepot in the kitchen and threw open the bedroom door. "Jill!"

When all the hair had fallen to the floor around her, she dropped the scissors and fell to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Chris knelt beside her and drew her against him. He folded his arms tightly around her and rested his cheek against her head. "It's okay," he said, though not knowing what it was that upset her in the first place. "Everything's going to be okay."

Jill pulled back and wiped at her eyes with her fingertips. "No, Chris it's not."

His brow came together, his expression asking why not.

"Nothing's going to be okay while we keep lying to each other," she said.

"Lying? About what?"

She hesitated and tried to control her breaths. "I have something I have to tell you."

His heart started to race and his skin broke out in a chill. He swallowed hard. "I'm listening."

There was a painfully long stretch of silence, where they could only hear the coffee boil in the other room. Finally, she looked up, her wet, pale blue eyes meeting his, and whispered, "I love you."

.

**Disclaimer: **_Resident Evil_ and its related characters belong to Capcom and all respected creators.

**Author's Note: **Dun dun dun! I'm pretty sure the next chapter is going to be the last one. But you never know. Sorry again for the long wait.


	4. 4

**Second Chances - 4**  
(a Resident Evil fan fic)

.

"What?" Chris croaked.

Jill dropped her chin, staring at her hands in her lap. "I said I love you." Then she raised her head again quickly. "And I know you love me too! I heard you. In the hospital, when you came to visit me, I was awake the whole time. I heard everything: how you think of yourself as a coward and how you always wanted to tell me how you felt but knew that nothing would change even if you did because we work so hard _because _we don't have emotional attachments to each other.

"And I know that would complicate things, but I had to tell you. It's been eating me up inside for so long."

"Jill...I didn't realize you were awake. I wouldn't have said anything if I did." He dragged his hand over his head, not sure what to do. "I don't...I don't know what to say."

He was rejecting her. In his own way, he was, and though she told herself that it was better this way – better to keep things how they used to be – she felt her heart breaking in her chest. "But Chris, I love you too and it's taken us so long to say anything, but I think this is a good thing. We've always felt this way, we just never said anything. Why should knowing suddenly make it impossible to work together?"

"Because...Jill." He stood up and started pacing, his mind awhirl with thoughts. "Don't you realize what's going to happen now? We're not going to look at each other the same way."

"Haven't you always looked at me like that? Like a lover? I've always thought of you like that. Why do I think I threw myself out that window?" she asked. "If you meant no more to me than a co-worker, I'd have let you die like Joseph Frost and everyone else. Yes, it was hard to see that, but it happened and I knew I couldn't stop it so I had to accept it. With you, I wouldn't have been able to handle watching Wesker kill you. Even if he'd killed me after, which I'm sure he would have, I had to make sure you survived, even if it meant killing myself. I had to let you live."

Chris' tone sharpened in anger. Did she think he was stupid? That he didn't want her? Of course, if he thought that he could, he would have taken her the first moment he laid eyes on her. He would have married her and settled down and had a family like people were supposed to. But he knew that they had a job to do. They'd signed on to it the moment they left Raccoon City and he wasn't going to turn and walk away.

"And what if you got pregnant? What then?" he asked. "It's fine if it's just the two of us, but things happen. I'm almost forty years old for God's sake! I used to want to get married. I wanted children, but if I had them, there's no way I'd be able to fight like I do. And then I couldn't make for them a safe world to grow up in. And you? You think I'd let you continue with this life? Not a chance in hell!

"I lost you once, Jill. I never want to again, especially not if we were to go that far. I was able to move on as best I could having lost my partner. If that happened again, if you were killed, I don't know how I could live without ever kissing you again, or holding you or just seeing you. You'd become too much a part of me."

It was Jill's turn to get angry. It was like he was toying with her, telling her how much he loved her, how much she meant to him, while pushing her away. "I've thought about that! And I want the same things you do, Chris. I want a normal life. But we're not going to have one. Whether we like it or not, we're stuck in this forever. But why does that mean we have to give up what we want? I know you'll never be able to settle down and fight like Claire. You're too much of a soldier to try to work things out diplomatically. I'm the same way. But I..."

She was angry and upset and hurt and suddenly she felt the symptoms of paranoia and anxiety. Her breaths became rapid at the thought of losing him. Her chest tightened, her voice became a wheeze. She couldn't go on knowing how much he loved her, how much she loved him, and never doing anything about it. She couldn't go on with only pretend memories of a monster made man in her mind.

She wrapped her arms around her belly, curling up on the floor and felt the tears overwhelm her again. She swallowed her voice, tried to blot out the memories, but they were rushing rapids, squeezing through her metaphorical fingers the harder she tried to keep them at bay. Her voice slipped out before she could stop it, before she could bury it away forever: "I don't...I don't want to grow old and the only memories I have to be of _him!_"

Chris glanced over his shoulder. What?

She told herself to shut up. Don't say anything! Don't make this harder on him than it already is! Don't remember! But the words came fast and angry.

"Maybe you can move on, Chris. Maybe you can live without ever getting close to me, but I don't think I'd be able to. I tried that already. For eight years I tried to accept that you and I would only – could only – be friends. But Wesker made me see that it didn't matter what I tried to tell myself." She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the palm of her hand to the lid, trying to forget the memories swirling through her mind. Her voice dropped to a low whisper and he wondered if she was still talking to him, or if she'd reverted back into a world of her own. "I couldn't stop him. I was helpless, completely helpless for three years. After a while I just gave up. It was pointless to try and fight any more; I was like a cripple trying to walk, or a blind person trying to see. So I did the best I could. I did the only thing I could."

Chris knelt again, clutching her by the shoulders. Se flinched and his entire body had been electrified with rage he was afraid he couldn't control. But Wesker was dead; he couldn't avenge her even if he wanted to. "Jill, what did Wesker do to you?"

"I'm sorry, Chris. I'm so, so sorry," she said, and suddenly she was not the thirty-three-year-old woman who'd lived through viral outbreaks and bio-terrorism. She wasn't a former S.T.A.R.S. agent, or one of the most respected members of the B.S.A.A. She was a little girl, ashamed and afraid. She felt like she'd let him down. "I couldn't do anything, so I just...pretended. I told myself it wasn't him. Instead, I tried to imagine he was you. But I knew, in my heart, no matter how much I tried to convince myself, you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?" Chris asked, though he was certain he already knew.

"I've always tried to keep up with you, you know," she said. There was something about her tone, something foreign, dead. "Ever since we met, before we met, even. I was always trying to keep up with the guys in S.T.A.R.S. There weren't many of us girls there, maybe one per team, if that. Try being the only feeble little girl working along side people like Barry and Wesker – Barry's like a bear and Wesker had all of his kung fu stuff."

If they were in any other situation but this, Chris would have laughed and corrected her, saying Wesker knew martial arts, which encompassed kung fu, but wasn't exactly the same thing. But they were here and now and it was the last thing she needed to hear.

"And then you came along: handsome, strong, and the best damn shot I'd ever seen. I felt like I had to be masculine in order to fit in. That's why I always wore my hair short, and wore blue all of the time. And somewhere along the way I even started to talk like a guy. I wanted to be like the rest of you, but in my heart I'm still a girl. I still noticed and felt things that are typical for women. Like love.

"Even back then, just like you, I liked you. I wanted to know you and as partners, I was able to. Everything I learned, from your love for Claire to your short temper, I came to love. And I wanted you and that night you called me to your apartment, I thought that by being there for you, for listening to you and supporting you, maybe you'd notice me too. I wanted to be with you that night, but here were are, years later, still just 'partners'."

"Jill, I..." He wondered where she was going with this, or if, after everything she'd been through, she'd finally lost her mind.

"Gunpowder," she said. "You always smell like gunpowder smoke, no matter what you do. In the mornings, when I know you've showered, when we're out with the guys for beers, at parties like tonight, you always smell the same. It's like cigarette smoke: washing, cologne, fresh air, nothing can cover the smell. But over time, it no longer irritated me. Instead, it smelled familiar, and when I was in trouble, if I caught a whiff of gunpowder, suddenly, I wasn't so scared anymore. I knew you'd have my back.

"But Wesker always smelled clean. He always smelled like antiseptic, like chemicals, like a hospital. It sickened me and when he was that close, I wanted to vomit, only my body wouldn't even allow me that while I was under his control.

"Your hands are course," she continued, "calloused and dry and your nails are black are torn. Your skin is tanned from the sun and imperfect, scarred and bruised from all of your adventures, like badges of honour. Your face is rough with stubble and your hair is messy. Your eyes are filled with sadness and fear and anger from everything you've seen, but like a distant star, there's still a sparkle of hope and love.

"His skin was pale, almost deathly white and smooth. His teeth were straight and white and his breath was hot but minty. Clean. His chin was always smooth and I can't recall ever seeing him shave. His body... Every muscle was perfectly sculpted, like a statue; not a single flaw. His hair was neat, combed, gelled and not a single hair out of place. His hands were delicate, the nails and cuticles trimmed, his palms and fingertips smooth. They were the hands of someone who performed meticulous and precise jobs, like a surgeon or artist. But they were powerful and cold. They were cold and as lifeless as the tint of his skin, like a corpse come back to life. And his eyes...he had a dragon's eyes: fiery, evil, serpent-like and invasive. Every time he looked at me, every time he touched me without his gloves, every time he...forced himself on me..." She cringed and pressed her knees together, curling up in an even smaller, tighter ball. "Every time he was..." She shuttered. "I felt a little of my soul slipping away."

Chris clutched her arms tightly and leaned in until their foreheads touched. His voice was a strong whisper; it was all he could do to keep his anger at bay. "Jill, Wesker is dead. He can't violate you or torture you anymore and if I had known, lava and rockets would have been too good for him. I'd have ripped out his heart myself. I'd have broken the fingers that touched you and pulled out the eyes that looked at you and when I was finished, not even God would have known he was a man."

Jill raised her head, briefly wearing something that resembled a grateful smile.

"I should have told you a long time ago, but there was too much at stake to burden you with the truth back then. And afterwards, I just wanted to forget. I wanted to move on, but every time I close my eyes, there he is, haunting me."

"Wesker can't hurt you ever again. He's dead, and even if he wasn't, I'd never let him near you so long as I live." And then he pulled her close and Jill thought that he was going to kiss her but instead he hugged her tightly.

"It's been a long night," he said when he finally drew back. "We should both get some rest. Would you mind if I crashed on your couch tonight? I'd hate to ask you to drive me home."

She nodded and wiped her eyes again, sniffing back mucus. "Sure. Actually, I was going to ask you to stay. I don't want to be alone right now."

He smiled sympathetically and cupped her cheek, wiping her eye with his thumb. "I understand. Maybe I can't be what you want me to be, or what I want me to be, but so long as you need me, I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

"Okay."

With the groans of two spent, aging adults, they got up off the floor. Jill pulled back the sheets and climbed into bed. When she was tucked in, Chris shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, thinking what to say. Finally, he settled on, "I'll be in the living room. Shout if you need something."

"Okay," she said again. As he turned away, "Hey Chris?"

He stopped. "Yeah?"

"If you could," she asked gently, "...if we weren't, you know, fighting in this war...if we were normal people...Would you want to...you know..."

"Sleep with you?" he finished and she nodded, pulling at a thread in her blanket. "Of course. You're beautiful, sexy and I love you. I couldn't imagine anything I'd want more, if things were different."

"So...what did you mean when you said I reminded you of Claire?"

Blood pooled in Chris' cheeks. "What?"

"That's kind of disgusting, Chris."

"No! I didn't mean it like that!" he insisted and started to shuffle anxiously, feeling himself grow redder and redder. "I don't want to...I don't think about Claire like that! I just meant...I just meant that I remember taking care of her after our parents died. And it made me feel good, like...stronger, to do that. More of a man. But I..." Everything he said seemed to sound bad, incestuous. "What I mean is...I don't...It's not like that, I swear!"

Jill laughed at his response. "I was teasing, Chris. I know what you meant."

"That was mean," he said, but smiled. "Goodnight, Jill."

"Goodnight, Chris."

He nodded and stepped back and turned and disappeared into the hallway. Jill relaxed against her pillows. She was afraid to go to sleep, but her body felt heavy and her eyelids began to droop. And though she was afraid, somehow, by reminding herself that Chris was just a holler away, she felt safe and found herself smiling as she drifted off to sleep.

.

**Disclaimer: **_Resident Evil_ and its related characters belong to Capcom and all respected creators.

**Author's Note: **Another short chapter. The next is going to be the final for this story.

I apologize now and in the future for spelling mistakes (I thank Black Metalmark for pointing one out in the last chapter). While I'm prone to making them, I always try to re-read my chapters before I submit them. Thankfully, I have my beloved Microsoft Word back, so the changing of contractions to Chinese characters and elimination of quotation marks shouldn't be an issue anymore XD


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